The drive had been long: hours spent peering through mist at the green, lower slopes of glens disappearing into clouds of gloomy wetness.
Crossing the elegant Skye bridge, the heavy sky persisted to the campsite, which seemed to cling to a landscape braced for more bad weather.
It came once we’d parked the car. Unrolling the tent, the clouds lifted partially and a cruel wind scythed through this bare terrain. I cursed under my breath as I battled with flapping nylon and tangled guy ropes. Pitched, we went for a drink.
Rain drummed on large windows and a fire crackled in the corner… in July. We gazed outside at the murk, searching for a view.
The whisky was good but the fast weather of Skye dealt another card… sunshine. As steaming walkers trudged out of Glen Sligachan, I walked up, gazing at the fangs of the Black Cuillin while side-stepping clouds of excitable midges.
I was armed with a Barbour and camera as it was only a stroll, but the landscape egged me on.
I turned a corner and a wall of dark cloud approached… fast weather. I just had time to capture the spectrum arc of a rainbow before I was chased out of the valley by a storm.